platonic, 𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞

eighteen

Y/N drove down the highway at full speed without any attention to the other cars blaring their horns at her as she sped past. She had no destination. All she could think to do was drive and drive.

Hot tears ran down her cheeks, stinging her skin as air from the open car window whipped her face. Her hands gripped the wheel so hard her knuckles showed prominently through her white skin. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. Her mind spun with the wheels.

Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

Why would he do this to her? Why would she do this to her?

She thought they loved her, cared for her, the girl she had grown up with and the boy she fell in love with.

What had she done? Was it her fault? Was she they reason they hurt her so badly?

Maybe she was always the reason: the reason why the boy she loved loved someone else: the reason why her best friend didn't care for her enough not to hurt her so: the reason why her parents couldn't stand to be in the same country let alone the same room.

No, no, no, not the separation thoughts.

When Sam and Mila separated, all Y/N could think was how it was all her fault, that she had broken her parents up. They had told her repeatedly that it wasn't her fault, everyone had, but she couldn't help but blame it all on herself. It took her months and months and months to overcome that. And now it was happening again.

The car came to a sudden stop in a small carpark. Y/N looked up at where she was. Buildings were sparse and irregular, families strolled up and down a nearby path, the sky stretched out far and met a Californian coral ocean at the distant horizon.

Santa Monica Pier.

Y/N opened the car door and stumbled out onto unsteady legs. The sea air hit her hard. She made her way in a Bambi-like fashion down the path to the beach, holding her breath to stop from any sobs escaping her mouth. She already knew she must look a total mess due to the many odd glances she got as she bumbled along and a quick look in a cafe window confirmed her suspicions. Her mascara was no more than two circles of black smeared around her eyes, her scleras were bloodshot and raw, her hair knotted and windswept.

She had never felt uglier and yet she couldn't give a shit.

Y/N continued down the path, sniffling uncontrollably, past the café where herself and Oscar had their first date, past the park where Emily and her played as 7 year olds, past countless places where she had made countless memories that would now mean nothing, until she arrived at the spot where Oscar had first said that now broken promise: I love you.

She slumped down onto the pier, ignoring the glances from tourists and whispers of people who recognised her. Y/N knew her manager would kill her if she found out she was in public looking like this but she didn't care. Nothing really mattered right now. Everything she knew wasn't true. He had built her a world of lies.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

Maybe he never meant those three words. Maybe he just said them for the sake of it, because he liked the sound of a lie rolling off his tongue.

Maybe he did mean them when Y/N was fresh and new, before he found someone more exciting. Maybe she'd lost her sparkle, had become dull and interesting. Maybe Oscar had just gotten... bored.

Or maybe Y/N had done something. Maybe it was all her fault. Maybe if she hadn't been cast in Sex Education

and gone to England for so long